Chapter Two A MOST UNUSUAL CEREMONY

      One morning, just as the Browns were sitting down to breakfast, a loud rat-tat-tat sent Mrs Bird hurrying to the front door.

      “I didn’t want to push these through the letterbox, ma’am,” said the postman, handing her two large, snow-white envelopes, “in case anything happened to them. One of them is addressed to that young bear of yours.”

      The Browns’ postman had once got one of Aunt Lucy’s postcards stuck in their front door and Paddington had given him some hard stares through the letterbox for several days afterwards.

      Thanking the man for his trouble, Mrs Bird hurried back into the dining-room clutching the letters. Paddington nearly dropped the marmalade into his tea when he saw that one was addressed to him. He often received a postcard from Peru, and at least once a week a catalogue arrived bearing his name, but he’d never had anything quite as impressive before.

      “Here, let me,” said Mr Brown, picking up a knife and coming to his rescue. “You don’t want to get marmalade all over it.”

      “Thank you very much, Mr Brown,” said Paddington gratefully. “Envelopes are a bit difficult with paws.”

      A gasp of surprise went up from the rest of the family as Mr Brown cut open the envelope and withdrew a large gold-edged card, which he held up for everyone to see.

      “Whatever can it be?” exclaimed Mrs Brown. “It looks most important.”

      Mr Brown adjusted his glasses. “Sir Huntley Martin,” he read, “requests the pleasure of Mr Paddington Brown’s company at two o’clock on Monday 20th February. There will be a tour of the factory followed by an important ceremony and a special tea.”

      “Sir Huntley Martin,” echoed Mrs Bird. “Isn’t he that nice man we met at the Porchester that day Paddington had trouble with his onions?”

      “That’s right,” said Judy. “He’s the marmalade king. He said at the time he wanted Paddington to pay him a visit, but that was ages ago.”

      “How nice of him to remember,” said Mrs Brown, opening the other envelope.

      “Trust old Paddington to get himself invited to a marmalade factory,” said Jonathan. “It’s like taking coals to Newcastle. I wonder what the ceremony is?”

      “Whatever it is,” replied Mrs Brown, holding up another card, “he must have known it’s half term. He’s invited the rest of us to see it later in the afternoon.”

      “Hmm,” said Mrs Bird, looking at Paddington. “It’s less than a week away. I can see a certain person’s going to have a lot of cleaning up to do.”

      “Perhaps it’s a sticky ceremony, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington hopefully.

      Mrs Bird began clearing away the breakfast things. “Sticky it may be,” she said sternly. “But no bear goes visiting from this house in the state you’re in at the moment – least of all to a ceremony. You’ll have to have a bath and a good going over with the vacuum.”

      Paddington sighed. He always enjoyed going out but he sometimes wished it didn’t involve quite so much fuss being made.

      All the same, it was noticeable during the next few days that he paid several trips to the bathroom without once being asked, and as a result his fur became gradually shinier and silkier. By the time the following Monday arrived even Mrs Bird’s eagle eyes could find no fault with his appearance.

      It had been arranged that as a special treat Paddington should go on ahead of the others and he felt very excited when he climbed into a specially ordered taxi and settled himself in the back seat, together with his suitcase, the invitation card, several maps and a large Thermos of hot cocoa.

      It was the first time he had ever been quite so far afield on his own and after waving goodbye to the others he consulted his map and peered out of the window with interest as the taxi gathered speed on its way through the London streets.

      On the map the journey to the factory looked no distance at all, only a matter of inches, but Paddington soon found it was much farther than he had expected. Gradually, however, the tall grey buildings gave way to smaller houses and the familiar red buses grew less in number, until at long last the driver turned a corner and brought the taxi to a halt in a side street near a group of large buildings.

      “Here we are, guv’,” he said. “Can’t get right up to the gates, I’m afraid. There’s a bit of an obstruction. But it’s only a few yards up the road. Can’t miss it. Just follow yer nose.”

      The driver paused and looked down out of his cab with growing concern as Paddington, after stepping down on to the pavement, began twisting about for several seconds and then suddenly fell over and landed with a bump in the gutter.

      “’Ere,” he called anxiously. “Are you all right?”

      “I think so,” gasped Paddington, feeling himself to make sure. “I was only trying to follow my nose, but it kept disappearing.”

      “Well, you ’as to point it in the right direction to start with,” said the driver, as he helped Paddington to his feet and began dusting him down. “You’re in a right state and no mistake.”

      Paddington examined himself sadly. His fur, which a moment before had been as clean and shiny as a new brush, was now covered in a thick layer of dust and there were several rather nasty-looking patches of oil on his front as well. Worse still, although he still had tight hold of his suitcase with one paw, the other was completely empty.

      “I think I’ve dropped my invitation card down the drain,” he exclaimed bitterly.

      The driver climbed back into his cab. “It’s not your day, mate,” he said sympathetically. “If I were you I’d get where you’re going to as quickly as possible before anything else happens.”

      Paddington thanked the driver for his advice and then hurried off down the road in the direction of an imposing-looking building with a large illuminated jar on its side. As he drew near the entrance he sniffed several times. There was a definite smell of marmalade in the air, not to mention one or two kinds of jam, and he quickened his step as he approached a small office to one side of the gates where a man in uniform was standing.

      The man eyed Paddington up and down. “We’re not taking on any bears at the moment,” he said sternly. “I should try the ice-cream factory next door.”

      “I haven’t come to be taken on,” exclaimed Paddington hotly, giving the man a hard stare. “I’ve come to see Sir Huntley Martin.”

      “Ho, yes,” said the gatekeeper sarcastically. “And who are you, pray? Lord Muck ’isself?”

      “Lord Muck!” repeated Paddington. “I’m not a Lord. I’m Paddington Brown.”

      “’Ave you seen yourself in a mirror lately?” asked the gatekeeper. “Lord you may not be – but mucky you certainly are. I suppose you’ve left yer Rolls round the corner?”

      “My rolls?” said Paddington, looking most surprised. “I didn’t bring any rolls. Only some cocoa. I thought I was going to eat here.”

      “’Ere, ’ere, said the gatekeeper, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want no cheek from the likes of you. There’s an important ceremony taking place this afternoon. They’re opening a new factory building and I’ve strict instructions to keep the gates clear. We don’t want no young unemployed bears hanging about letting the place down.

      “If you want a job,” he continued, picking up a telephone inside his office, “I’ll call the foreman. Though what he’ll